


tilling my own grave to keep it level

by scrapbullet



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for inception_kink with the prompt:<i> NEEDS MOAR EAMES IS HURT. Doesn't even have to be a pairing, just. Wax poetic about his injuries and such.</i> I did my best darling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tilling my own grave to keep it level

There is a certain charm to the way that blood begins to pool between the junction of throat and shoulder, the systematic way in which it lingers for but a brief moment in time before it falls; a crimson rivulet that pauses in its journey before it slides into a starched white collar, staining it.

The goon had come from nowhere, battering through the Forger's significant defenses before he had faltered, dropping to his knee's as the butt of a gun made abrupt contact with the back of his head. Disorientated, Eames had tried to stand before pain had blossomed across his shoulder, spraying hot blood up in a rush of oxygenated red.

For a moment, there is silence.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Inhale.

 _Exhale._

Repeat.

And then there is the thunder of feet upon dirty pavement, and hot, rough hands cradling his scalp as the burn spreads outward through his body. It blooms into something unbearable, a heat that permeates every muscle and every sinew, and abruptly he shivers from the cold. He is aware of the screaming, of course, its pitch is enough for bloody dogs to hear, but it is the harsh pant of air across his cheek that he focuses on with such intensity and the concern that flits across Arthur's closed face is one that causes Eames to frown in silent confusion. That expression should never be on that darling face.

"You _idiot_ ," Arthur breathes, and his hands tremble as they smooth across Eames' cheek. His fingers are red. "You goddamn fucking idiot."

Sirens; and paramedics and -- _bloodyfuckingHELL_ would that bint shut up already? -- they pull Arthur away from him, but not before their lips meet. A twist of a self-deprecating smile graces Eames' lips when they part, a pause in which there is nothing but them and the muted sky above, and then there is cold, blessed relief from the pain.

 _Inhale, exhale. Repeat._

But that's alright... because Arthur will be there when he wakes up.


End file.
